Watercolors
by XiangXu
Summary: Unable to bear the sight of such a despondent Spain during a meeting, America takes it upon himself to try and make the normally cheery nation smile again.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Watercolors

Warnings: None so far.

Disclaimer: Sadly, I own nothing.

AN: Yeah, I rewrote this chapter. The previous version bugged me for some reason.

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America stifles a yawn as he gazes at the plain metallic doors that mercifully block him from the stuffy old codgers of Europe. He doesn't know whether to feel sorry for himself for having been invited to a weeklong conference of the European Union, or the unfortunate building that has the displeasure of serving as the EU's official headquarters. Rubbing his right eye briefly with his right hand, which was free, he decides that he deserves more pity. Normally, the American is quite punctual with his appointments, but he really does not want to attend a meeting for a Union he has no membership in. The old farts of this continent had invited the younger nation to discuss the proposed free trade agreement between the European Union and his far more awesome federated republic. Originally intending to blow off the whole affair, his government had other ideas.

Apparently, it would be a good opportunity to help improve foreign relations. Of course, that's what they told him. What they really wanted was a high level official to attend a trans-Atlantic conference to divert attention away from the actual free trade talks taking place elsewhere. The European public seems to be rather uncomfortable with the talks, not that America could blame them; this 'diversionary' tactic was apparently some European minister's idea anyway.

"_Hurray!_" America thinks sarcastically as the full weight of realizing that he will be spending the next seven days in pointless meetings listening to nations squabble about matters he really has no interest in hearing sinks in. Taking a quick glance at his watch, America notices that he is nearly two hours late. Not that he, or anyone else cares. Pushing on the door's bar shaped release, the blonde nation enters into the main conference room. Despite what most people would think, the meeting looks terribly uneventful. Someone is speaking at the front of the conference room, while the others are seated in the various rows of seats, fenced off by small cubicle like walls raising from the table top. Some were giving their undivided attention to the presenter, others appeared to be doing paperwork; and some, like Prussia, lean back in their ergonomically designed chairs while resting their feet on the work place provided to them.

Despite the boringly mundane scene before him, the American can't help but notice an excited buzz in the air. As he walks down the aisle hugging the wall on his way to the guest area in the back, the blonde nation periodically glances over the assembly and notices that several nations appear to be communicating with each other via smart devices. Clearly, something interesting had occurred while America was busy battling the lethargy inducing sofa in his hotel room. What kind of innkeeper places sofa's in their establishment whose comfort level exceeds that of any mattress?

Finally reaching the back row, the North American spots his 'assigned' seat and moves towards it. He sets his briefcase down on the desk as he pulls his chair out and prepares to hunker down for the most mind numbingly boring seven days of his life.

"America?" a familiar voice pulls the blue eyed nation from the pit of tedium induced coma he was about to jump head first into. The American adopts a small, genuine smile, as he leans back in his chair so that he can see his ally on the other side of the barrier separating them.

"Turkey? What are you doing here? They finally let you in?" America asks even though he knows that Turkey is sitting in the guest area with himself.

"No, they want to discuss the terms of my membership… again," the Turkish nation states as he rolls his eyes. At least, that's what America thinks the other nation is doing, it's rather difficult to read someone's facial expressions while they wear a mask. "Which reminds me, since you're here, could you do me a favor and help argue my point when they finally get around to putting forward the motion of discussing my membership? You and England are the only ones here that would actually champion me."

"Sure," America scrunches his face in amusement at Turkey's phrasing. The American can't help but think of knights championing some lord or lady during a medieval jousting tournament... or a race, Turkey liked having races during that time. At least he thinks Turkey liked racing back then. Maybe he was thinking of Morocco.

"Speaking of England," Turkey continues as he leans in closer towards his ally. "Did you know that he and South Italy are dating?"

America's face takes on a neutral expression as the revelation sinks in. His former caretaker and one of his closest friends were in a 'romantic relationship'. Having no reason to doubt his ally, the American still searches for his brother, father, whatever the hell their complicated familial relationship would be called. It only takes a split second to recognize the messy blonde mop. Sure enough, the island nation is seated next to Romano Italy and he can't help but notice how close the two are sitting next to each other. It wasn't side by side, or very obvious to outsiders, but those two nations enjoy their personal space and although they were focused on their own paperwork, the space between them was much shorter than would be permitted to anyone else, even immediate family.

"No one tells me anything," America says with a small pout as he gazes at the two nations. Although it will no doubt be a bit awkward at first, the American concludes that he is just happy that the two cantankerous nations have finally found someone that enjoys hurling verbal abuse at the World as much as the other. They are like two porcupines, all barbed, infection inducing quills on the outside, but adorable softies once you get past the defenses. It isn't long before America is imagining two cartoonish, Disney style porcupines trying to give one anther a kiss but are having difficulties getting past the spines.

"That is so adorable," the American comments softly to himself before he is reminded of something else. "Is that what all the 'buzz' is about?"

"Part of it," the Turk says with a knowing smirk but refuses to say anything else.

"Well, what's the rest," America half asks, half demands. When the older, infinitely older, nation continues to maintain his smirk, the American adopts another pout and threatens: "Don't make me whip out the puppy dog eyes."

"Alright," the Republic of Turkey says with a chuckle. "What has everyone's rumormongering in overdrive is Spain."

"Spain?" The wheat blonde nation questions as he gazes over the room to search for the nation in question. It takes a few seconds, but he finally spots the nation in question in the front row, slumped over, looking a complete mess while resting his forehead against the top of his section of table. It is quite the pitiful sight to behold. What strikes the American the most is the stillness of the Mediterranean nation's form. It's as if he is a sculpture of misery frozen in place and put on display in some fancy French museum.

"Well, England and South Italy had walked through the door holding hands. That alone was enough to set everyone off, yet the 'best was yet to come', as they say. Spain had almost immediately approached the pair," the Turk pauses for a moment. "You should have seen it, the assembly had gotten so quiet you'd think that they had just received a declaration of war from Russia."

"It was a seemingly civil conversation, and the next thing anyone knew, the Italian and the Spaniard were shouting at each other… I swear the walls were rattling," Turkey states.

"Do you know what they were arguing about?" America inquires; giving his ally only his partial attention. He still hasn't taken his eyes off the Spanish male. Something about the sight of such a despondent looking Spain was difficult to turn away from.

"No." the masked nation says flatly. "Spain was using some variant of his language that I couldn't quite follow, and South Italy was using some weird cross between Italian and I swear Arabic. Most likely Sicilian or something. Whatever Romano Italy said really tore through Spain."

"Huh," America grunts as he continues to take in the sight of Spain's defeated form. He stares for a while longer before he is distracted briefly by Turkey. He vaguely hears his ally mentioning getting back to catching up on his paperwork and commenting about how they'll talk again later. To which America gives a brief, distracted "Yeah".

America can't quite explain it, but for some reason, the sight of seeing Spain be anything but cheery, feels so very wrong. Spain was like him in some ways, a chatty, 'Stepford Smiler' and it bothered the American greatly to see him so defeated and unresponsive. A frown forms and America soon begins to feel an all too familiar 'itch' begin to form in the back of his mind. It was an urge, a feeling, if you will, that has gotten the young nation into far too much trouble lately. That itch, that urge to try and help fix something. He tries to ignore it, but he can't seem to tear his eyes away from the Spaniard's back. The longer he looks at Spain, the greater the urge to 'help' becomes.

"Stop looking," the North American says to himself. After a great deal of effort on his part, he manages to remove his gaze from Spain's miserable form and onto the table top in front of him. He's slightly irritated with himself. America can't understand why this is upsetting him so much and that need to fix things, which causes him so much grief, isn't helping. Deciding that he needs to distract himself, the American grabs the headphones that are hanging from a hook on the miniature wall at his left. Placing the device on his head, the blonde nation adjusts them before reaching for the knobs at the top of his table. He switches them on and is amused to find that this meeting is offering translation services. Messing around with the knobs, the American finds the 'English' channel and gives his attention to the nation currently presenting.

Unsurprisingly, it is Germany. The American tries to pay attention, to keep himself from dwelling on the Spaniard, which the North American has once again set his gaze towards. Shaking his head, seemingly in an effort to clear his mind, the blonde male focuses on the German's presentation. Although, about food, the German is discussing the pros and cons of protecting the unique cultural heritage of a type of Italian cheese with maggots in it… and Europeans accuse his people of putting strange food items into their mouths. Despite the interesting topic, the presentation isn't enough to distract the American from Spain. His mind is starting to turn into a battlefield of competing thoughts. Images of the slumped over Spaniard flash by, only to be quickly replaced by the stubborn American with something else. It was like someone had spliced two movies together and was playing it on fast forward.

As his internal struggle wages, America starts bouncing his right leg up and down on the ball of his foot. He's starting to have difficulty concentrating and he is becoming more and more aware of his heart beat as the beginnings of a heavy sensation sinks into his chest. The American's mind is starting to scream at him that he is the hero, and heroes help those that are in need. It is taking every ounce of the young nation's willpower not to look towards the man that set a full blown war of thoughts in his mind.

In a last ditch effort, the blonde reaches for the dial and switches through the 'channels' until he finds one with a female interpreter. It momentarily amuses him to see Germany presenting with a female voice, but he soon recognizes the language as Spanish. The realization hits him with the strength of a mac truck and the American's leg looks like it's about to jack-hammer its way through the flooring. He feels as if he's on the verge of an anxiety attack, the feeling in his chest is getting more and more pronounced and his heart is racing.

"Ugh," the American groans as he finally gives into the urge that he has been fighting. Looking at Spain, America realizes that the Mediterranean nation has been in that exact same position, unmoving, the entire time he has been there and the last pieces of resistance in his mind crumble. Spain should be laughing, and smiling, and cooing over cute tomatoes, not looking like he has been shattered into a million pieces and hastily put back together with cheap ninety-nine cent store scotch tape. America has, no, needs, to do something, anything to help bring that sunny smile back.

"Alright, something small, you always go overboard," America cautions himself as he starts to come up with a plan to try and get Spain to smile again. Already, he can feel his heart start to slow to a steadier, more comfortable pace. The heaviness in his chest begins to lift and the American briefly wonders why he always has to try and help 'fix' things.

Maybe he could get Spain a giant tomato shaped cake. With bright red frosting, and sparklers… and a giant Spanish flag coming out of it. That would be totally awesome; everyone loves cake!

"No," America stops that train of thought. It was ridiculous; Spain must receive tomato themed gifts all the time, he would probably like something different for a change. The American tries to recall more about what he knows of the Spanish nation. Although their governments are on amiable terms, that hasn't always been the case. Add in the fact that America hasn't personally interacted much with the Spanish avatar, the blonde nation was having great difficulty trying to come up with anything that might cheer up the usually sunny man. America vaguely recalls that he had read an article online that the Spanish liked ham, not that he could really blame them; ham was freaken delicious.

"_Fact check time!"_ the North American thinks to himself as he pulls out his smartphone. Pulling up his search browser, America types in 'Spain and Ham' and is amazed at the seriousness in which the Spanish approach ham. It also gives him a new found respect for the Spanish people, anyone that takes that much effort into producing something so delicious must be good people. However, America soon runs into a bit of a road block. Apparently there are several types of Spanish ham; many of which come with pedigrees longer than the pig that produced them. America was so, not dealing with that. Especially when national avatars can be absurdly particular about any culturally significant, national food item.

"Besides," America says with a slight grin as he momentarily remembers a video game. "The 'am tastes of despair."

Sneaking a quick peak at the nation occupying his mind, the American stuffs his phone into a pant pocket. He needs to come up with something quick. Spain's going to give himself some sort of back condition for how long he has remained in that slumped position. America notes that the Spaniard most likely has a giant red spot on his forehead from where it is connected to the table top. Pulling out a pen and note pad from his briefcase, the American tries to scour every recess of his impressively heroic brain for anything that will aid him in his mission. He taps the pen against the corner of his mouth as he lifts his chin contemplatively. This was far more difficult than he had hoped. With the exception of Portugal and Italy, the Latin nations were also so finicky around him. Friends one decade, than bitter enemies for the next five. It was quite stressful.

A minor memory of Spain cooing over something adorable at the last United Nations meeting worms its way into the American's head, causing a small smile to form. Spain had seemed so happy and was blinding everyone nearby with a sunny smile that rivaled America's own. Well, that settles it; cute things seemed to make the former conquistador incredibly happy, so that was the route America needed to take. Now, all America needs to do is somehow find something cute to lift the Spaniard's mood. Trying to think of what to do, the American stares down at the argent paper of his note pad. He had earlier run out of line paper and raided the printer in the hotel lobby instead of going to the store to purchase more; far less effort… and money. It turned out to be a fortuitous turn of events as the blank expanse has given the American a marvelous idea. He can just draw Spain something cute.

Although the North American is set on his course of action, he can't help but feel a small kernel of doubt plant itself in the back of his mind. America is a decent artist, though he never really considers his works as art. He mostly produces landscapes, or pictures of plants and/or animals which always look too technical and accurate. To him, they always look like they belong in a scientific journal, or some travel book, not an art gallery. The last time that he had tried a new art style, back during World War II, the other nations had laughed at his creations and America never really tried a new style since.

"_I'll just have to draw something naturally cute,_" he thinks as he uncaps the pen and sets out sketching a kitten. Kittens were always adorable, especially when playing or being curious, or scared, or doing anything really. Even though he had decided against the tomato cake, he can't help throwing in a tomato plant with a ripe fruit on the vine. The plump looking vegetable/fruit/whatever, has somehow managed to attract the attention of the kitten which is trying to be fierce, but failing epically since it is only radiating cuteness all over the page.

It isn't until America has finished his sketch of the tomato and kitten that he realizes that the conference room is now entirely empty, save for himself. He had missed the call for a lunch break and with a quick glance at his watch and event itinerary, is able to determine that the lunch break is half way through. Popping the cap back in place on his pen and stuffing it into his briefcase, the American takes a moment to look over his work. A small frown briefly appears on his face. Once again, his attempt at art has turned out more realistic and accurate than he had hoped for, but he is satisfied with its adorableness.

After setting the sketch off to the side, America quickly gathers his things and neatly places them in the briefcase. Once finished, he stands up, briefcase in one hand, adorable tomato kitten in the other. As he makes his way from the back towards the front where Spain's assigned seat is located, the blue eyed nation periodically gets the urge to look at his sketch, as if the cuteness will somehow fade before reaching Spain while no one was appreciating it.

It doesn't take long for him to reach his destination. He ponders the best spot in which to leave his gift to the depressed nation. Smack-dab in the center is the obvious choice, one in which the North American seriously considers. However, he soon scrunches up his face in momentary displeasure as a thought occurs to him. What if there's a draft that blows the kitten off the desk and onto to the floor. He doesn't want the poor thing to get trampled. Instead, America decides that it would be best to leave the sketch under the rather thick event itinerary that Spain has left on his desk. After leaving his present in the suitable spot, with a large chunk of the corner poking out for easy spotting, the American takes a moment to appraise the set up. The strange urge that he should look at the sketch one more time to make sure that it was still adorable washes over him. He pulls the paper out from under the stack of papers, bringing it up to his face.

Yup, still cute. He slides it back under, corner sticking out, and heads towards the exit. America can't help but feel a little giddy. He can't wait to see how his gift will be received.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Watercolors

Warnings: Minor Language

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, that would be slavery.

AN: I rewrote the first chapter, if you hadn't noticed. Also, this would've been out sooner, but I type these on my tablet and save them to a cloud, only for the cloud to tell me the server had been updated but not my documents and I had to rewrite this thing several times.

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"Dwee dee dooo," America walks through the halls of the conference building, periodically making noises to the melody of the Mission Impossible theme song. He ignores the looks that inevitably get thrown his way by passing staff and nations. The American's first attempt earlier in the week to cheer up Spain had been a complete disaster, at least in the sunny blonde's mind it was. America was suffering no delusions, he hadn't expected his sketch to utterly eradicate the troubles that plagued the Spaniard's mind, but he had hoped for something more. For all his effort and hasty planning, he was rewarded with the sight of Spain pulling his drawing out from under its hiding spot, and not much else. The North American had been so giddy with anticipation that he had waited at the edge of his seat… and then he waited, and waited, and waited some more. All Spain did was stare at the picture with a vacant expression for the rest of the meeting. Well, now that America looked back, it wasn't exactly a vacant expression; more like a distant 'lost in the roiling mental darkness' of life being a bitch, expression. It sucked.

Of course, America is always accused of being a 'stubborn jackass' (to quote a certain bushy browed individual) and one flop wasn't enough to deter the younger nation from his present course of action. He would just have to try again the next day, and the next, and every meeting after until he created something that would make the Spaniard's famous smile return. The second attempt hadn't fared much better. That time, America had attempted to deliver a sketch to Spain in person, complete with the warmest, sorrow melting smile the American could muster. Smiles are scientifically proven to be infectious, after all.

The blonde nation had caught Spain during lunch, but his efforts to initiate a conversation had all been shot down. Spain would give small, noncommittal one word responses and the whole situation just made the American feel incredibly awkward, and just a tad dejected. So, America eventually excused himself and resolved to just leave the new sketch in the same delivery spot as the previous day. As expected, his gifted garnered very little in the way of a satisfying response.

"This time will be different," America reassures himself as he heads towards the conference room. Interestingly enough, America had forgotten to sign any of his creations. This wouldn't be an important detail if it weren't for the fact that the nations of the world are expert gossipmongers. After the fourth day of the meeting, the sketches had received attention and rumors began flying about their purpose and who was sending them. Although cheering up Spain is still his main goal, not getting caught is now a secondary goal. The whole mystery the sketches are creating is quite amusing, and America is having fun delivering his gifts to the Mediterranean man without anyone noticing.

"Crap," the American says under his breath as he rounds a corner that leads towards the conference room. France and Prussia are hanging about right outside the door. They're having what appears to be a normal conversation during the lunch break, but the North American notices that they appear to be keeping discerning eyes on their immediate surroundings. He walks back around the corner before he can be detected. How was he going to get in there unnoticed?

America places a free hand into his jacket and feels the small manila envelope stored there for safe keeping. Inside was the American's latest creation. Finding that simple sketches weren't capturing the required amounts of adorableness, the American had decided to try something new. After aimlessly meandering around the host city after yet another failure, the blue eyed male had inadvertently ended up in an art supply shop. Almost immediately, azure eyes landed upon a gleaming metal tin containing a watercolor field kit. It beckoned to the young nation. Pleasant memories danced across its lustrous surface. As he reached for it on the shelf, he could hear an eighteenth century England informing him in a very serious tone, "Watercolor painting is an incidental adornment of a proper, English education."

Apparently, to England, 'incidental' meant sparing no expense and gloating about your 'little brother' to stuck up Frogs. He immediately bought the kit and a pad containing paper about the size of a greeting card. America could get absurdly detailed when he painted with watercolors, and he didn't have time for that. The smaller paper will help him curb his urge to get every last detail and color perfect simply because he doesn't have enough room.

"What to do," the North American mutters as he removes his hand from his jacket and tries to figure out a plan of action. He ponders for a moment before the proverbial light bulb flashes above his head. America doesn't need to get into the conference room unnoticed, he simply has to deliver the package unnoticed. The blonde turns and heads for the reception area. He scans the area and quickly zeroes in on an aide. A rather attractive middle aged woman with her hair up, giving off the classic, sexy librarian vibe.

"Excuse me Ma'am, I was wondering if you had a spare itinerary…" the American says with a shy smile. Adding the metaphorical cherry on top, he briefly looks down with a slight, embarrassed blush before continuing, "I seem to have lost mine."

"Of course," the aide eventually says after giving the American a once over. America gives her a relieved smile, and can't help but notice how she seems to have a gleam in her eye that reveals she wouldn't mind teaching the seemingly young, and inexperienced man a thing or two.

"Thank you," America says after he is handed the itinerary. He gives the woman an embarrassed smile, and appears as if he is about to say something more, but turns and walks away toward the conference room. The aide watches his retreating form with a raised brow.

"I should audition for a movie sometime," America takes a mental note before he starts humming the Mission Impossible theme. Taking a quick glance around, the American pulls the envelope out from his jacket and rests it on top of the itinerary. He stops near the wall just before rounding the corner towards the meeting. Opening the envelope, America pulls out his latest creation. After buying the field kit, the blonde immediately ran off to his hotel room and got to work. It had been quite some time since he had actually 'used' watercolor paint, but quickly remembered why he had taken to them when he was younger. You had to anticipate how the paint would act and move, and there were several techniques that made it challenging and fun all at once. He wondered why he ever stopped… Oh, right, being a superpower and videogames.

It took most of the night, but America had managed to create a post card sized painting of Spain and Romano Italy dressed as Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, respectively. The American has done some research on the Spanish nation in the past few days; Intel is a vital part of any successful mission after all. After looking up famous Spaniards, the American somehow made it to a page all about Cervantes and Don Quixote. The book sounded so awesome that it inspired his latest creation and he actually ordered a copy online. Plus, it would totally ruffle England's feathers; especially when he's literally spent decades trying to get America to read 'proper' literature. Comic books were totally 'literature'.

America has painted Spain atop a horse, appearing to be chatting animatedly; while Romano is struggling to stay seated on a short donkey looking like he is about to throttle some poor soul. In the back ground was a lone windmill that the American couldn't resist the urge to throw a pissed off looking Netherlands next to. Hearing steps coming towards him, the North American quickly opens the itinerary and stuffs the painting between the pages. They pass by without incident and America quickly adjusts the painting so that a very small, barely noticeable portion is poking out the top.

The envelope and itinerary are then stuffed into his famous jacket and the American walks around the corner and towards the two nations that are still guarding the door to the conference area. Somehow, the Mission Impossible theme mutates into the Indian Jones theme in his head, and he practically struts down the hall in time with it. Prussia, motions towards him with a nod, signaling France to turn around and face the newcomer. America gives his best airheaded smile and waves to the two as he approaches.

"Howdy!" America says cheerfully as he stops near the two. While maintaining his smile, he adopts a mildly perplexed expression. "What's going on?"

"Not much, just chatting and standing guard," Prussia says as he slaps a hand onto America's shoulder. France gives a momentary smile as a greeting but allows the other two to do the talking.

"Why are you standing guard?" America asks, before his eyes narrow. He looks around with a paranoid expression before continuing in a hushed tone, "Is it Russia? I bet he tried to break in."

"Relax," Prussia says with a chuckle. "No one tried to break in. We're just keeping track of who comes and goes… for safety reasons."

"Sounds like a good idea to me," the North American says. "Um, would it be alright if I went into the conference room, I forgot my briefcase. It has important documents in it." America says the last part quietly as he leans towards the argent haired male. Both Prussia and France exchange glances, America gives a nervous little laugh.

"I've been getting into a lot of trouble with my boss for doing that, please don't tell anyone," America begs. After a brief moment, France steps away from the door as Prussia opens it and motions for the American to enter. The American stares directly into crimson eyes and gives a beaming smile while saying, "Thanks!"

He enters the room at what he believes is a normal pace. Now he just needs to complete his mission without anyone seeing. America doesn't turn around to see if Prussia or France are watching him; that would be an obvious sign to the two older nations that he is up to something. However, he notes that he hasn't heard the audible click of a door closing, so it is better to assume that it is still open, and that someone is keeping an eye on things. The American walks alongside the front row, it will give him access to a center aisle that will take him directly to the guest area in the far back of the room. Luckily, Spain's assigned seat is located in the front row America is currently walking down. As he walks by, he runs his hand on every tabletop between the dividers. He hopes that it will 'desensitize' whoever is watching him to the action as well as portraying it as an action that is momentarily amusing the American.

As he draws nearer towards his target at the end of the row, the American feels some excitement. He hasn't done any cloak and dagger type stuff since the end of the Cold War with Russia. It is quite exhilarating. Finally, he reaches his target. Continuing the motion that he started at the beginning of the row, the American juts his left hand between the dividers and places it on the itinerary that Spain has been leaving on his desk every meeting. Quickly, in one swift motion, he slides the itinerary off the table top and presses it between the side of his leg and hand. Rounding the corner to take the aisle, America uses the cover afforded by the divider to put the itinerary into his right hand, freeing the left to once again trail across the rows.

Eventually reaching his seat, the American grabs his briefcase and places it onto the table. He uses the opportunity to throw a glance towards the open door. Prussia was holding the door open by standing against it. The Germanic nation's attention seems to be focused more on France, who is standing just outside the door way in the hall. Though, one can't be too careful when it came to the Prussian. He is far wilier than most would give him credit for.

"_Better put on a show_," America thinks as he moves to open his briefcase. He glances around the room in an effort to look like he was making sure it was clear, before finally opening it and checking that it still contained all of its contents. Of course, the American's newly acquired itinerary was placed in the briefcase during the process. Feeling a bit bold, the blonde nation even pulls out the now empty manila envelope and itinerary housing his painting in plain sight. The manila envelope gets stuffed into the briefcase while the 'package', as America has started mentally calling it, gets placed on the table.

He soon closes his briefcase and makes sure that the locks audibly click shut and grabs the itinerary in his right hand. With his left hand, he grabs the briefcase and proceeds to walk off down the aisle towards the awaiting Prussian. Once again he puts on a show and lightly swings his briefcase back and forth to draw attention away from his right hand. As he rounds Spain's desk, he swings the briefcase up so that it momentarily obstructs Prussia's view of the table. America uses the brief amount of time to slip the itinerary in his right hand onto the Spaniard's section of the table and continues walking towards the exit while swinging his briefcase.

"So, what did you have for lunch?" America asks Prussia as he walks past and through the door. Prussia looks bored, hopefully that means that his actions have gone unnoticed.

"I haven't had lunch yet," Prussia says with a matter of fact tone.

"Dude, seriously?" America says with disbelief. Normally, he'd stay and chat, but he himself was hungry. "Well, that's your problem, I'm off to eat something while I still have time."

Continuing down the hall, America waits until he has rounded a corner before breaking out in a giddy little shake and hop. That was fun. The American can't help but feel that this time, his gift will actually, noticeably accomplish something.

* * *

The lunch break passes without much excitement. Hungary had invited herself and her camera to lunch with England and Romano. With England being a self-proclaimed gentleman, and Romano being Italian, it ensured that Hungary would essentially get what she wanted as long as she played up lady-like appearances. It certainly hadn't harmed her efforts when she roped Belgium into her scheme.

"Man," America muses to himself as he watches the conference room fill up with returning nations. "The Europeans sure are a sneaky bunch."

Prussia and France are still standing 'guard' by the entrance. They appear to be continuing their conversation off to the side while politely holding the doors open. America briefly frets that his cover will be blown as he watches them. If he was the only nation to enter the conference room during the lunch break, it wouldn't be terribly difficult for them to discern who left Spain his gift. However, America eventually reassures himself that he has nothing to worry about. The commotion of a bunch of returning nations is far too great for the 'would-be' spy catches to adequately keep tabs over from their single lookout position at the front of the room. Each nation that enters the conference room before Spain, the more likely it is that America's actions will escape unnoticed.

Speaking of Spain, the nation that has recently occupied so much of the American's thoughts enters the room. America notes that today he appears to be much better off than he was earlier in the week. The Spaniard is even communicating with people now. He still isn't smiling, and fells as if he is 'there' but isn't. It was a vibe that was difficult for the American to quite pin down and describe. It is like going to a store and the sales person is all smiles and happily trying to sell you something; but you can tell that they are miserable and hate their job and feel like some creepy robot that is freaking you out the whole time you have to speak with them. Although Spain isn't smiling, and definitely isn't radiating a creepy vibe, it is a similar situation in America's mind.

France and Prussia initiate a conversation with Spain, and America can't tell from their expressions that they are clearly worried about their friend. After a few brief moments, Spain excuses himself and heads towards his assigned seat in the front row. America can't help but feel happiness bubble up as the Spaniard immediately turns his attention towards the itinerary after seating himself. The American inches closer to the edge of his seat as Spain lifts up the itinerary with one hand and checks if there is anything under it. A small, disappointed frown forms, and for some unexplainable reason, the sight makes the North American slightly happy.

At the same time it frustrates him. He should have exposed more of the painting and America resists the urge to stand up and tell the Mediterranean man to open up the itinerary. It wouldn't matter much if anyone knew that he was the 'mystery artist', but he didn't want to ruin his or anyone else's fun. The nations of the world practically ran a professional gossip league. Spain sets the itinerary back down onto the table, and after a momentary pauses seems to finally get the idea to check the insides of the itinerary. America watches as he flips through the pages and the painting slides out and flutters away before landing on the floor. The American can't help but notice the looks of shock on Prussia's and France's faces as they realize that they have been out played.

"_In your faces!"_ America taunts in his mind. The two nations eventually narrow their eyes and start to thoroughly scan the conference room. Hastily, the blue eyed American adopts a bored, vacant expression as he rests his chin on his left hand. He diverts his attention back towards Spain. Said nation has fortuitously turned in his seat towards the American when he moved to pick up the fallen painting. Spain is holding the post card side work of art in one hand while lightly brushing a finger from his free hand across the surface. America watches with growing concern as the older nation takes on a sorrowful expression. His green eyes eventually soften and the younger nation can tell that he is lost in some memory. The look Spain is displaying is one in which America has caught England giving when they visit certain places, or stumble across memorable items. Slowly, a small, barely noticeable bittersweet smile tugs at the corner of the Spaniard's mouth.

With a great amount of willpower and self-control that would impress any detractor, the American resists the urge to break out into a victory dance right then and there. Although it wasn't the smile he was hoping for, it was definitely something, an improvement in his mind. Without his knowing, a genuinely happy, and equally goofy looking smile spreads across the American's face. With one minor victory under his belt, America resolves to continue his present course until he eventually accomplishes his goal.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Watercolors

Warnings: N/A

Disclaimer: The characters obviously aren't mine

AN: Nothing of mine is beta'd, so please forgive any mistakes as I edit these things myself and might overlook something.

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America struggles to stifle a giggle as he seats himself on a park bench. Earlier in the month, Hungary had invited the nations of the world to The Royal Palace of Gödöllő at her place. She stated that it was to be an event to promote international peace and cooperation. However, it was really just a brief respite for the nations of the world disguised as business. All they had to do was keep up appearances; shake a hand in front of a camera, chat for literally three seconds with someone you absolutely despise, then spend the rest of the day running around the surrounding park and its palatial gardens. It was totally awesome.

The American can't recall any place like this back home. A massive palace surrounded by a park. A freaken park! The young nation could barely contain his excitement as he sped his way through the grounds, stopping at the various sights and marveling at the scale and grandeur. Most of the nations rolled their eyes at his enthusiasm, but he could tell that his reaction amused the host nation in a positive way. That was always the case. America would get excited over something seemingly mundane to the others, eyes would roll, but the host nation would always find a proud smile adorning their face.

The blonde nation starts to hum a random mashup of multiple songs and pieces. He focuses his attention on the book that he had retrieved after the 'photo-op' events had been concluded. He studies the cover art; taking in the portrait of a gangly old man with an impressive looking nose bursting out from an equally large, grey mustache.

_"I can't believe that I portrayed Spain as this man," _America thinks as he opens up his newly acquired copy of Don Quixote. Well, 'El ingenioso hidalgo don Quixote de la Mancha'. He had inadvertently ordered a copy in Spanish in his excitement of 'discovering' it. Not that it really mattered; he is home to the fifth largest Spanish speaking population in the world… plus, it'll help him with his Spanish. Although he can definitely speak and understand the language he can't recall ever actually reading anything aside from signs and paperwork in Spanish. It has so far proven to be a rather interesting, and entertaining exercise.

America turns to the page he has book marked, and turns his head to the right. Following the walkway with his eyes, they eventually land on his target. He smiles, then proceeds to give the book his, seemingly, undivided attention. After the events of the day, England and South Italy had opted to act like a couple and stroll through the palace grounds together. Their current route will take them right past the American reading what is considered to be one of the greatest works of Western fiction. The fact that it was also in Spanish is a bonus here. Oh, America can just imagine it. England will want to know why he was not only reading it, but reading it in Spanish. To which America will reply, "There's American versions?" Or something similar that will no doubt rile up his former caretaker.

Still gazing into the book, America lets slip a small laugh as he imagines England as a cartoonish bird with his feathers fluffed up and an indignant expression on his face.

"Hola!" America stills as he suddenly becomes aware of a presence standing before him. He hadn't planned on this. The blonde's mind goes blank as he continues to stare at the pages of his book. For a second he can't manage to move even a finger, before suddenly regaining control. His gaze shifts and he finds himself staring into bright, Spanish viridian eyes. "What are you reading?"

The American can't help but notice the small, knowing smirk on the Mediterranean man's face. It had been several months since America had started leaving little pieces of art for the Spaniard. He hadn't missed a single meeting, and even convinced his boss after the European Union conference concluded to allow him to stay in Europe to conduct a 'goodwill' campaign... which conveniently allowed the American to attend other meetings on the continent.

In that time, Spain seems to have recovered. He is communicating, cooing at adorableness, and even smiling; but America gets the impression that the older nation is holding back. Yes, he smiles, but he isn't 'beaming' like he used to. Something is still missing. The American would like to think that he has managed to help in some way, but he reminds himself that it was most likely time. It had been a while since Spain and Romano's blow out in front of Europe, and the Spaniard most likely came to terms with whatever was plaguing him on his own. Of course, the revelation hasn't deterred the American any. Once he commits to something, it takes a great deal to convince him to give up until it is 'Mission Accomplished'.

"Erm, Don Quixote," America says, wincing internally at how it sounds more like a question, rather than an answer.

"Really?" Spain questions while seating himself next to the American on the bench. "May I ask why you chose this particular work?"

"_Because it is one of yours,"_ America immediately thinks to himself. He finds that answer to be rather creepy for some reason. Although he has good intentions, he hasn't failed to notice how his actions could be construed as stalking. Sneaking into buildings, leaving anonymous 'home made' gifts; some including paintings of said Spaniard… Yup, totally stalker hallmarks right there. America recalls one particular rumor about his paintings. Some seem to think that they're elaborate threats on Spain's life and contain hidden clues that reveal when and how the end will come. Yeah, he was so not telling the truth.

"To be perfectly honest…" America trails off a bit at the end. "I decided to read it to annoy England. He has been lecturing me about 'proper' literature; trying to stuff his authors down my throat, so I bought this." He turns the book to reveal its cover towards Spain as he says the last part. He begins to think that maybe that was the wrong thing to say as he watches the Spaniard's expression take on a neutral appearance. Don Quixote is a major cultural contribution the Spanish had given to the world, and here America was using it to rile someone up. Fortunately, a small chuckle soon escapes from Spain's lips.

"I definitely approve," Spain says as he leans his head towards the American in an effort to see what part of the book he was at. "How far have you gotten?"

"They're at the inn, and the fight broke out in the dark. Everyone is hitting the wrong people and stumbling over everything," America says rather excitedly. Although the book is a bit boring in places, overall it is every bit as fun as he had imagined. He watches as Spain rights himself.

"You know," Spain says. "The book used to be two separate volumes."

"Really?" America questions as a small smile graces his features. The American is fully aware of the smile's presence, but can't figure out exactly why it materialized.

"Sí, at the end of the first volume, the author hints that there was another quest," Spain says while adopting a faint smile that suggests he is remembering a fond memory. "The first volume only told the tale of two of Don Quixote's quests, but teases you at the end that there is a third, but it was 'lost to history'. I had to wait a whole decade before volume two came out to hear of the third quest."

"Oh, man, the must have sucked," the American supplies as his small goofy smile continues to plaster itself on his face. He consciously drops his smile, only for it to reappear mere seconds later as Spain continues.

"It did. You get it easy, and can read the whole thing." The brunette says with a slight grin. The sight of it seems to pull an even stronger smile from the American, who momentarily beams, only to rein it in immediately after he becomes aware of it.

"_What the heck,_" America questions himself as he tries to stop himself from smiling. He has been keenly aware of the fact that he has been smiling for the entire conversation thus far, but for the life of him, can't understand why. It isn't a particularly joyous or humorous conversation. They are simply discussing a book, like they are a pair of forty-something year old housewives attending a book club. Try as he might, the smile won't die, it was as if someone was using some sort of alien, smile tractor beam on his face; constantly pulling smiles out of him.

"The third quest is more serious than the other two. The writer got more philosophical with it." Spain says with a brief laugh while bringing up a hand to scratch the back of his ear. America struggles to keep a smile contained, but once again fails. He suddenly becomes very aware of the Spaniard's hair. It was, well, brown. Quite a common color, but it had a remarkable sheen. There seemed to be pieces of brass trapped in there that would steal the Sun's rays and wear them as their own. America also took notice of the various strands shooting off in different directions and how certain pieces would move when a breeze passes by.

Spain continues the conversation while America provides small, opened ended sentences accompanied by genuine smiles that encourages the green eyed nation continue speaking. Normally, America is the one doing the majority of the talking. However, he can't seem to contribute much to the conversation even though he desperately wants to. It is like his body has been placed on smiley auto-pilot while he is stuck in the back seat watching the whole display. Watching, and wondering what the hell is going on. Why does he constantly have to throw smiles all over the place, and stare at Spain's hair? It is hair, it can't be that fascinating.

"_Look at something else"_, the North American commands. His gaze shifts slightly downwards and America finds himself staring into the Spaniard's green eyes. He notes how they aren't completely green; there are other colors thrown in as well. They're more like a splotchy ring of pale blue inside a ring of emerald all blending into a thin brown ring around the pupil. America suddenly feels very embarrassed as he wonders if Spain will suddenly become aware that the blonde is staring into his eyes. Quickly, the blue eyed nation directs his own eyes to land on Spain's nose. He once read that during conversations, it looked like you were giving the other person eye contact even though you actually aren't.

"Hello," an accented, and very familiar voice reaches the American's ears. He quickly manages to tear his gaze away from the Mediterranean man sitting next him and on to the new arrival.

"_Thank goodness,"_ America thinks as he fells himself regaining control. Quickly, he throws on his standard greeting smile; this time fully able to control every aspect of it and its formation. "Howdy, Iggy!"

"I would ask that you refrain from calling me that, but I know you will just continue to do so anyway," England says with a slight eye roll.

"Aw, you know me so well Iggy," the North American says as he notices Romano to the side, and slightly behind England. "Hey, Romano!"

The South Italian gives what could only be described as a grunt in response. Something about the way he is carrying himself gives the American the impression Romano is slightly uncomfortable. America quickly glances to his side to see that Spain is radiating a similar level of discomfort. The American gets the feeling that the two Mediterranean nations are going to be quite content in letting America and England do the majority of the talking.

"What, may I ask, are you reading," England says as he manages to regain America's attention. America notes how the island nation appears to eyeing the cover of his book. The blue eyed blonde can't tell if his former caretaker is giving it the 'stink eye' or a begrudging look of appreciation. Knowing England, it was most likely both.

"El ingenioso hidalgo don Quixote de la Mancha," the American replies with a playful smirk. He starts to feel a familiar sense of giddy anticipation bubble to the surface. The two nations are quite skilled at pushing each other's buttons and seem to have turned it into a game throughout the decades. America's smirk widens as he watches the Spanish title 'assault' the Englishman's ears. Pushing it further, "You have been trying to get me to read 'proper literature' lately… So I went online and found out that this is considered to be one of the greatest works of fiction, ever. I thought I'd take your advice and read a classic."

"What do you mean lately? I've been trying to get you to read something proper for several decades now." England narrows his eyes at the American. Slowly, his face adopts a neutral expression and then a smirk of his own forms.

"Are you even reading that?" the island nation asks with a raised brow. America can tell from England's expression and sudden confident air that his ally has seen right through his little game.

"Yes!" the American replies while puffing out his checks. His anticipation dissolves and he's rather disappointed that he had somehow managed to give himself away. It is to be expected, the two have been doing this song and dance for ages.

"I don't believe you," England says as he snatches the book away from America. He flips through the pages before giving it back. "Besides, it is in Spanish. You always act like you can't understand anything that is not written in 'American'."

"I can understand Spanish just fine, eye brows," the American counters as his pout grows. Boo, he really wanted to make that little vein in England's forehead pop out. It was always so hilarious looking. With an indignant huff he continues, "If you don't believe me, ask Spain. We were discussing it before you interrupted us."

A slight tinge of guilt burrows itself in America's chest as he realizes the last part sounded far more harsh and dismissive than he had intended. Even though the two enjoy playing this 'game', they often accidentally hurt each other's feelings. America throws a hesitant glance towards England. He breathes a slight sigh of relief as he notices that the island nation looks surprised. Rather quickly, his surprise turns into an all too familiar distant look.

"_Oh, great,"_ America thinks as he recognizes the look. Why were these older nations always doing that around him lately? He doesn't have long to ponder the question as England pulls himself back to reality. His face scrunches slightly and he crosses his arms. Instead of continuing the conversation, he just stands there, allowing an awkward silence to descend on the four.

"Uh," America goes to say something, but he stops when he notices that both Spain and Romano seem rather anxious. The American quickly springs up from the park bench and onto his feet as an idea pops into his mind.

"If you will excuse me, I need to abscond with your boyfriend," the North American says playfully as he gives England a small nod and proceeds to grab Romano's wrist.

"What?" England demands, more than asks as he levels America with a glare.

"There's some important stuff about our… joint… Mafia investigation that we need to discuss," The American manages to say before the South Italian can punch him in the arm for supposedly 'manhandling' him. Dropping the 'M' word around Romano has replaced his famous, irritated scowl with a serious look mixed with guilt. The American can't count how many times the man has apologized to him about his 'problem' spilling over onto the United States. Almost immediately, America starts to regret using that excuse as he feels both of the older nations switch on 'overprotective parent' mode. "Relax, everything is going smoothly, there's just some information that needs sharing. Departments to be coordinated, and all that boring stuff."

America waves his free hand as if to shoo away their concerns. All though he notes that their 'Mother Hen-ness' is powering down, he does feel bad for leaving them with very, very, tiny troubled expressions on their faces. He gives a nervous laugh and makes a show of politely thanking Spain for his company in front of England, before speeding off with a Southern Italian in tow.

"So what do we need to do," Romano asks with a determined expression once the two were a safe enough distance away from prying eyes and ears.

"Actually," America starts as he sports a guilty expression that immediately informs the brunette that the American had been lying. The blonde quickly notices the menacing aura his friend is radiating. From years of experience, the American knows that the Mafia is a touchy subject for the Italian. It is definitely a subject that you don't approach lightly. Quickly, before the South Italian can explode with the full fury of Mount Etna, hurriedly continues, "I want to talk about you and Spain!"

The reaction is immediate. Rage instantly turns into surprise, and then into irritable disinterest. If it weren't from years of experience in dealing with both England and Romano, the American wouldn't be able to notice that the slight sense of anticipation poking through the expression. Romano clearly wants to discuss the topic, but so far hasn't.

"What about," the Italian answers dismissively.

"Well, I know it isn't really any of my business," America says with while trailing off and looking up.

"Damn right it isn't" Romano huffs.

"But, you're my friend and I can tell that what happened is still bothering you," the American continues. To be perfectly honest, the American hasn't really noticed anything about the South Italian… or anyone else besides Spain lately. He feels guilty as Romano's irritable frown briefly falters. Some friend he has been. More concerned with a minor acquaintance, then an actual friend of several decades. "Look, you don't have to tell me about what happened, or why it happened, but I think you should try and talk to Spain again. It has been a while and I'm sure you've both sat on whatever has been bothering you for long enough."

America watches Romano deflate like a balloon releasing pent up stale air. The Southern Italian looks as if he wants to say something, to elaborate more on the topic at hand, but settles for a 'You're right'. The American feels rather happy at the thought of Spain and Romano reconciling whatever had occurred between them. However, the happy feeling is soon tainted with guilt as the blue eyed nation realizes that he is happy more for Spain than his friend. America can't help but feel that he has manipulated his ally like some sleazy politician.

"Enough of this serious crap! Let's go and throw tomatoes at Prussia and Germany," America says in an effort to lighten the mood, and run off his guilt. He certainly doesn't miss the way the Mediterranean man's face lights up at the mention of hurling fruit at the two Germanic nations. It is soon replaced with a hesitant glance towards the direction of their respective former caretakers. "I'm sure Iggy will survive an hour or two without you glued to his face. Distance makes the heart grow fond, they say."

"You're an idiot," Romano says while giving the American a light hearted smack on the back of his head. The Italian soon pulls out his phone and America assumes he is sending England a message.

"Tell him we're going to hit France as well, he should be willing to give us the green light then," America says with a smile as he and Romano walk off towards the kitchen to procure some ammo.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Watercolors

Warning(s): None

Disclaimer: I own nothing

A/N: I apologize for the late update. I had some really strange form of writer's block where I would write, but not like anything I produced. I literally have 7 (excluding this one) complete, 3k+ word versions of this chapter saved to my SD card. I am still not 100% satisfied with this chapter.

Also, thank you for the lovely reviews, you guys really know how to make someone blush.

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"Dutch colonial," France mutters to himself as his gaze rests upon the home at the end of a rather long walkway. He takes in the dark, almost black roofing and its red brick siding. The telltale gambrel roofing reminds himself of the homes the Huguenots constructed in his southern and central regions back in the sixteenth century. France momentarily fights an older side of himself that wants to sneer at the European style home on the East Coast of the United States. It is a reaction that almost always occurs when he sets eyes upon it. It isn't just a 'Dutch' architectural style, but these Americans insist on labeling it as such. The blonde gives a sigh as he walks towards the door nestled between two ornate columns. What is it about the 'New World' that makes him, and other European nations, want to smash each other's faces in?

The French nation raps against the dense wooden door with a closed fist. He waits a few seconds before turning around and gazing down the path he walked, all the way down towards the road. America has a rather large yard. A large, kempt yard with plenty of flowerbeds and shrubbery. The Frenchman shifts his vision towards the shrubbery that line the front of the house; they have some rather gnarly looking thorns. A small frown forms on France's face as he realizes that no one appears to be coming to the door. He turns and announces his presence again; this time employing the ring shaped knocker hanging at the center of the door.

"Hello?" France says as he knocks again. Earlier in the week, the Frenchman had been visiting the islands of Saint Pierre and Miquelon. They are his only holdings left in this part of the world, and they serve as a lovely excuse to visit his former North American colonies. That's right, colonies, plural. Despite what England will say, America is also his 'little brother.' After spending some time visiting Canada, the Frenchman has decided to spend the last few days of his 'tour' with the azure eyed American. If anything Canada has said about America's recent behavior, the younger nation could use France's sagely wisdom.

Apparently, America has been rather distant and anxious since returning home from his campaign across Europe. Never able to pay attention (more so than usual), staring out into nothingness, and generally just being uncharacteristically quiet. France smiles as he recalls an entertaining encounter with the wife of Canada's prime minister. The European had learned that he had arrived a few days after America had been visiting. Canada's 'First Lady' mentioned in conversation how the American seems to have been rather viciously savaged by the love bug. Of course, being the undisputed nation of love, France couldn't help himself and the two quickly fell into a strange sort of 'parental air' cooing over children in love. Canada had laughed at the scene and reminded them both that America was literally older than the vast majority of people present at the event by several centuries.

"America?" the French nation questions as he gives the door one more knock. The blonde reaches for the door knob with a slightly perplexed expression. He is sure that the American is home. France had 'checked in' with the pertinent authorities upon entering the country and was informed that America's increasing lack of focus had earned himself a vacation. For whatever reason, France is not surprised to find that the door is unlocked; it just seems like something America would do. He slowly opens the door and takes a tentative step across the threshold. "Hello?"

The older nation gently closes the door as he waits near the door for a response. His eyes take in the surroundings. Everything is so neat and orderly. An eerily familiar 'neat and orderly' that was most likely beat into the American by a certain, ruby eyed nation during the eighteenth century. What stands out the most to the Frenchman is that although the home definitely appears lived in; something about it gives off a lonely impression. Most likely it is the silence combined with the numerous sets of eyes staring out at him from the glass and wood confines of various picture frames. The American has pictures everywhere. Most are of America and what can be described as his family. There are however, other nations present as well. Some France recognizes as close friends, others are now considered enemies. Friends, enemies, acquaintances, and memorable humans all captured in stasis. Captured and somehow reinforcing the overall lonely feeling roaming around the background of the beautiful, New England home. It briefly forces the older, sometimes jaded nation to fully appreciate that, unlike America, he isn't hundreds, or even thousands of kilometers away from others of his kind. France can literally travel a few hundred kilometers from his home and encounter several other avatars. America could travel the same distance and encounter one, if any at all.

The faint sound of music finally makes itself known to the visiting nation. France wonders how he managed to be unaware of its presence until now. Especially since it is rather difficult to ignore now that he has become aware of it. The older blonde decides that his best chance at finding America would be to follow the music. He notes that it is rather energetic and briefly entertains the notion that the younger nation might be working out. Though, now that France thinks about it, the American is probably playing one of many violent video games that the younger has collected over the years. The later seems even more likely to the older nation as the chorus seems to consist of 'All I do is win'.

"Hello," France says as the music leads the man towards a closed door with a large white and gray cat pacing in front of it. The feline pauses and looks up at the uninvited visitor to its abode. The Frenchman can't help but smile in amusement as the large cat stands on its hind legs and stretches up against the door. It almost looks as if it is lazily trying to reach the door knob. It gives France an impatient mew while stretching a paw further up the door. Getting the hint, France gives the feline a small smile and moves to open the door. Not bothering to wait for the Frenchman to take his time opening the door, the cat pushes against the door with a surprising amount of strength after the knob has been turned and barrels on through, "You're welcome."

He gives a small chuckle at the feline's antics as he opens the door further and pops his head in. The room appears to be some sort of media room. There's a large, flat screen television. One of the walls is almost completely covered in shelving holding a massive library of movies and video games. Directly across the room, France notes an easel holding up what appears to be a very large pad of thick drawing paper. A suitable medium for watercolor paints, the European surmises. Unfortunately, the easel, and consequently the potential painting, are facing away from the door and towards the window. America's pet soon commands the Frenchman's attention as it looks up at something, or someone, behind the easel and mews. A hand reaches down and lazily ruffles the large feline's head and ears before disappearing behind the paper.

France moves from his spot at the entryway and towards the sound system under the television spewing out music that seems more appropriate for vigorous activity than painting. From his vantage point near the entertainment center, the American comes into view. America is seated on a tall, plain wooden hybrid chair/stool. His hair is the definition of 'bed head', while his feet are resting up on one of the stool's higher support bars; allowing the North American's knees to come up close to the younger man's chest. America is hunched forward, dangling a paintbrush from his mouth by the bristles and appears to be vacantly gazing at his creation while resting his chin on his knees. France gives a faint, amused sigh as he takes in the American's, 'just jumped out of bed' appearance.

Although France's new position in the room has given him a decent view of the American, it isn't quite enough to give the older nation a clear view of America's latest creation. All that he can make out is a great deal of yellow. It seems as if the entire plain has been covered with various shadows of yellow. Managing to tear his gaze from the American, France turns his attention momentarily to the sound system. He spends a few moments longer than anticipated to search for any button with the universally recognized circle and line symbol representing On/Off. Eventually he finds and presses it. As the music abruptly ends, he turns towards the North American and gives a brief greeting. He accompanies it with a wave in an effort to gain America's attention and pull him back into the land of the living.

France watches on in amusement as the American blinks once while slowly turning his head towards the older nation. The American's distant, neutral expression morphs into one of confusion before rapidly turning into surprise. France raises an eyebrow as the younger nation produces a startled yelp; dropping the paint brush and jumping out of his seat. The force of which sends the piece of furniture tumbling to the ground and startling the poor feline that had curled up to take a nap nearby. Much to France's disappointment, America quickly stumbles towards the older nation, putting himself between the painting and France in an obvious effort to hide the work of art.

"France? What are you doing here?" the American says while lightly scratching the side of his face and donning a nervous expression.

"I was in the neighborhood, so I decided to drop by," France says with a grin. He contemplates whether or not he should tease the American, or 'play' with him by beating around the bush. The Anglo nations are always so wonderfully easy to rile up if you know which buttons to press. However, France is here to help the younger nation. Although America is clearly an accomplished actor, the poor boy seems to wear his heart on his sleeve when it comes to love. His face, usually a well formed mask, gives everything away when Spain is near. The multitudes of grins and smiles that shape into existence around the Spaniard are so innocent and genuine that it makes France's heart explode in an eruption of warm, fuzzy butterflies that leaves him wanting to uncharacteristically squeal at the American's adorable behavior. It also makes him slightly agitated that neither Spain nor America have actually made any real progress. They are both available, and there is no way that neither of them doesn't know what is going on. One of them just needs a good shove in the right direction. Since America started it, France has decided that America can 'finish' it.

"So~," France starts with a knowing smirk that morphs into a grin. "Is that your newest painting for Spain?'

"No." America responds curtly. His face takes on a blank expression. France assumes it is an attempt to keep his face from revealing anything to the older nation. However, it has the opposite effect. France's knowing smirk from earlier returns with more force as the European raises an eyebrow. Giving the older nation the appearance of an amused parent that knows full well what their child is up to, down to the last, specific detail, but wants the child to tell them about it anyway. The North American falters briefly, his mask of neutrality cracking, but he holds on. Unfortunately for America, France never lets up and the strange staring contest that the two have engaged in eventually produces an obvious winner. Releasing a frustrated sigh, America gives in, "Yes."

"How'd you figure it out?" the bespectacled blonde continues while producing a rather adorable pout. The Frenchman can tell that the American is going through all his actions over the past few months in his head, trying to figure out when he might have slipped up.

"It was rather easy," France says with a proud, confident air reminiscent of a fictional detective unveiling the big mystery. "The moment you switched to watercolors, you narrowed the list of suspects down to four people… well, seven, but the Italies and I obviously weren't producing them."

"What?" America says inquisitively. He truly looks as if he has no idea how using watercolor paints narrowed the list of suppects down by so much. France gives a minor sigh of irritation as he runs a hand through his hair.

"How is it that you can master an art and not know its history?" The European says with an eye roll and slight shake of the head. It is almost unbelievable how 'American' his former colony can be at times. "In Europe, there are only a few peoples that really 'took' to the medium. The Germans, the Dutch, and the English. Obviously, Germany is out of the question. I don't mean to imply that he isn't creative, but could you imagine him painting kittens and windmills and then giving them to Spain?"

France gives a slight chuckle as the image of the austere German with a dour expression on his face sits in front of a canvass painting something cute. America seems to have developed a similar mental image as the older blonde hears a brief snort erupt from the younger nation before quickly recomposing himself.

"Which would leave England and the Netherlands. Both of which are highly unlikely. England and Spain are quarreling over a giant rock and now Romano. The Netherlands, I could see him painting those, then selling them…" France says. He pauses briefly, giving himself a chance to appraise America. The Frenchman is quite pleased to see that American is giving his undivided attention. "I was stumped for a while, but then I remembered that there was another, non-European nation that attended our EU meetings. A nation that was heavily influenced by the English, Dutch, and Germans. A nation that is also well known for producing skilled watercolor artists. You."

The older nation watches in amusement as the American gives a silent 'Oh' in response while appearing to process the information that had just been presented to him. Rather quickly the gears in the younger blonde's head begin to turn and his face momentarily contorts to horror.

"Ugh… if you figured it out through art history, that most likely means that Romano has figured it out as well." The American reaches a hand into his hair and pulls on it slightly before looking up at France. "He must be so creeped out. His friend is totally crushing on and stalking his father… older brother… whatever!"

France watches as the American looks around the room to search for his smartphone. Although the seemingly unreasonable freak-out is amusing, the Frenchman would really rather see what the younger nation has created for a certain Spaniard. Besides, the European can't imagine that Romano would have much to say against America, especially when you consider that the Italian is dating _ONE_ of the American's 'father figures'. France moves to walk towards the painting, but then pauses as a thought crosses his mind. America is kind of like his child, which would make France something of a parent… The attractive young son of a prominent (and equally attractive) nobleman falls in love with his father's older, male friend. Unable to express his 'forbidden' love in the open, resorts to painting beautiful masterpieces to express his feelings to the one he loves. Sounds like some tawdry harlequin romance from the Renaissance whispered in the shadows, away from 'civilized' company.

'_No, not tawdry… classically arousing,'_ France muses as a romantic tragedy set in Renaissance Europe plays out in his mind. With a happy smile adorning his features, the blonde lightly scratches at the stubble around his chin before pulling himself from his creative thoughts. There is a painting that needs appraising. Quickly, before he inadvertently distracts himself with fantasies, moves to place himself in front of America's latest creation. France feels a small amount of excitement and anticipation. This painting is much larger than the ones the American usually creates for the Spaniard. Once the European has managed to traverse the small expanse of flooring between himself and the artwork, a small gasp escapes from his lips.

The painting is, as far as France can tell, finished. It is of an olive orchard, or grove, and all though the entire canvas contains a singular imagine, it is also divided in two. To one side is what can only be described as the avatar of Spain, sleeping rather contently under the shade of an impressive looking olive tree. All though his eyes are closed, a small, serene smile adorns his features. Most strikingly, Spain, and his side of the canvas are painted entirely of shades of yellow, red, orange, and purple. However, instead of coming across as glaring, and overbearing, the colors provide a gentle, and warm atmosphere that gives the Frenchman a very 'Spain-like' feeling. It feels as if that entire side of the image; the trees, the earth, the man, the colors… all of it, were Spain.

As France's eyes move towards the other half of the picture, the almost dream like coloring begins to blend smoothly into a more realistic, highly detailed world that seems to contain a certain harshness in its realism. In the middle of this 'real world' was America himself, strolling past a row of unfathomably detailed olive trees. Almost instantly, France is drawn to the American's face. His head is turned towards the sleeping nation as he passes by, a soft yet complex expression is frozen on the American's features. To the Frenchman, it seems to contain fascination, longing, and a gentle fondness all wrapped up in slight smile.

The colors, the imagery, the two different styles, and the expressions all come together in such a way that France feels as if the painting were radiating the emotions of the artist. He would go so far as to say that the entire piece felt like a love confession. The realization causes the blonde nation to feel a brief moment of jealousy towards his southern neighbor. If only someone so adorable would fall as hard for him as America obviously has for the Spaniard. The corner of his eye moistens as he reaches a hand up to wipe at it while a familiar feeling develops in his chest.

"Are, you crying?" A voice says from the side. France turns to the American that sports a nervous and worried expression. He looks as if he's both worried about France's wellbeing, and what the older blonde thinks about what he has created. The sight of which causes the feeling in the Frenchman's chest to intensify and he promptly acts upon an urge that flashes through his mind. In an instant, France throws himself towards the American and traps the younger nation in a hug.

"I am so proud of you!" France says as he feels the American stiffen briefly at the sudden intrusion of his personal space.

"Oh… Thank you?" America says, clearly confused by the turn of events.

"You don't know how many sleepless nights I have spent over the centuries fretting about whether or not you had been irredeemably corrupted by that stuffy old, sexually repressed former empire that raised you." The Frenchman breaks the hug so that he can look at the American's face. France places a hand on his chest while giving a relieved sigh. "I feel so relieved."

"Last time I checked, you are also a stuffy old former empire that partially raised me," the American says with a brief shake of the head, clearly showing that older nation's outburst is amusing.

"Ouch," France says with a playful smile. He turns towards the painting while throwing an arm around the younger nation and pulling them closer together.

"So…" America starts, but trails off into a brief moment of hesitation before continuing. "What do you think?"

"It's beautiful!" the Frenchman states as he begins to point to various spots throughout the painting and explain his thoughts on them. As he continues his appraisal of the American's painting, providing praise, as well as critiques, he can't help but notice the genuinely happy and content smile gracing the younger nation's features as he silently allows the older nation to continue talking. As the two nations bound over the painting, France does begrudgingly praise the Englishman's decision to have America schooled in some form of art. Maybe he didn't do such a terrible job raising the American after all.

"This is practically like a confession of love. Instead of poetry and sweet words, you used colors and imagery. Are you going to give this to him during the next United Nations meeting?" France asks.

"What, No!" America answers almost immediately as the smile morphs into a troubled frown and he pulls away from the European. France takes back everything he was thinking about the Englishman previously, he most certainly was a terrible influence on the poor, impressionable boy. "I'm not giving this to Spain."

"… Well, why not!?" The older nation almost yells as he stares at the American with an incredulous expression.

"Because, it's creepy," America says. "I don't even, actually know Spain at all. We barely talk to each other, I don't know his favorite color, food, movie… anything about him. Yet, I know every last detail about his eyes. I use one of the greatest works of fiction ever produced in the West as a teddy bear at night because in my mind it is in some strange way a link to him. I can't even think about anything else and it freaks me out."

"America," France pauses before continuing. "That's just how love works."

"Yeah, but he didn't even do anything. I just wanted to cheer him up." The American says. France waits for the younger nation to continue; America looks like he wants to elaborate, but remains silent with a frustrated look. The older nation tries to think of something to say in the silence. He wants the American to continue the conversation, but quickly remembers that the best way to deal with the younger blonde is to just be direct.

"Do you love Spain?" France asks.

"Yes," the American replies almost instantly. His expression is hard and determined as he locks eyes with the European, leaving no room what so ever for doubt in either of their minds.

"Then I don't see what the problem is…" France says as he watches the American's resolve seem to retreat and doubt take over once again.

"The problem is what we are…" America states in an uncharacteristically soft voice for the normally boisterous nation. He doesn't continue, but he doesn't need too. France can fill in the blanks. The two could try to keep the relationship between themselves as individuals, but it is almost impossible to keep the political and national nature of their existence out of the equation.

"Of all the times you actually opt to think about the consequences before leaping, it has to be the one time when it is perfectly acceptable to jump head first…" France says as he places a hand on the American's shoulder. "Trust me, love is a wonderful and terrible thing, and even if it gets ugly and ends, you won't regret all the good that you experienced and felt. I am positive that you still have fond memories of England raising you that the bad you two experienced couldn't erase."

France briefly wonders if he should say something more, but America seems to look a little less unsure as he processes what the older nation has said. The European can't help but offer a fond smile towards the American that seems to comfort the younger nation.

"It's better to have loved and lost," the American says with a small smile that looks as if America is trying to steel himself, before turning towards his painting.

"Exactly," the Frenchman replies. "Though I was trying to avoid uttering that tired cliché."

"Well, there is a reason phrases become clichés," America says. Although the younger nation looks a little more determined than before, the European nation can still sense some doubt in the American's look. He'll just have to gently nudge the American into a more 'determined' state of mind during the rest of his visit. "Do you think Spain will like it?"

"Of course," France says without hesitation. He looks over the painting briefly before deciding to lighten the mood somewhat. "You know, you had me worried there… I was fearful that the miserable malaise you managed to create would cause your eyebrows to overtake your forehead. My hand was centimeters away from my emergency pair of tweezers the entire time."

"You know, England isn't as miserable as you would seem to believe," the American says with an amused smirk.

"You haven't known him for as long as I have," France retorts quickly with a dismissive wave of the hand. "Which reminds me, what do you plan to wear during the upcoming meeting?

"Uh… I hadn't really…" America trails off as France directs a disbelieving look at the younger nation.

"I thought so." France says as he tilts his head up and to the side, in a mock show of contemplation. "I guess we'll just have to go shopping. We can't have you wearing that worn out bomber jacket for your big day."

"Shopping?"

"Oh, it'll be so much fun!" the Frenchman says as he gives the American a once over.


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Watercolors

Warnings: None

Disclaimer: The usual: I own nothing, nor do I make any profit from anything herein.

AN: I am back. Life tried to keep us apart, dear readers... but I put an end to her. This will be the 'last chapter,' however, I am considering updating it with Spamerica one-shots of what happens after. Unfortunately, I've been away from the story for so long that I had trouble getting back into it; but I do keep getting ideas and imagining scenes that would make wonderful one-shots, in my opinion.

* * *

He is being punished. That is the only explanation that the American can come up with to explain his current predicament. Whatever cosmic power(s) are in play, are clearly punishing him for the various transgressions he has racked up over the centuries. It is the only reasonable conclusion. If not, then he wouldn't be standing in a hall in the United Nations Headquarters while France fusses over him like some mother making sure her son is presentable before a first date. The worst part is that they aren't alone in the hallway either. Most had the decency to pass by and snicker amusedly over the American's torturous circumstance. Some, however, stop and stare. America had resisted his cruel fate at first, after all, he is a full grown man… well, he does have the body of a teenager so maybe not a fully grown man, but he is definitely a strong, independent nation. One that can shake the very foundations of the world, and has on occasion. He shouldn't have to deal with this.

However, eventually he decided that the only manly path was to proudly take and accept what Fate/Karma/Whatever had in store for him. It certainly had nothing to do with having flashbacks of himself in similar situations with England and remembering that making a scene, more often than not, attracts even more unwanted attention. Noticing the truly happy and fond expression on France's face while attempting to 'fix' the American's hair didn't persuade him either. He is just accepting his divine punishment like a man.

Azure eyes narrow fiercely at brown. Hong Kong has been standing to the side, watching as France slowly destroys America's dignity and pride with his same, blank expression that most have trouble reading. America, however, knows. He knows that the unassuming brunette is taking great joy in watching. The American can feel it. It's all around him. Hong Kong is taking some sort of sick pleasure from watching a fellow national avatar be slowly tortured. Sick bastard!

The North American's eyes widen momentarily. He watches in horror as the stoic Asian avatar slowly produces a smart phone and proceeds to raise it up in the telltale motion of taking a picture or filming video. America quickly adopts a fierce glare and narrows his eyes at the device in Hong Kong's hands.

_"Burn, Burn, Burn, Burn…"_ America thinks to himself as he focuses his glare solely on the smartphone in the hopes that he will suddenly manifest psychokinetic powers and cause it to burst into flames or melt… or something equally awesome. He would normally focus his attention on the individual operating the phone, but America knows that Hong Kong's sick pleasure from watching older nations torture the younger nations is most likely from China's communist influence. Hong Kong can't help it, so the phone must die instead.

The American's focus is broken suddenly when he feels a moistness and pressure on his cheek. It almost feels as if someone has licked their finger, or thumb, and then proceeded to wipe his face with it. America's expression takes on a more horrified look before turning to face the French nation that had recently taken it upon himself to actually act like an older brother around the American these past few days.

"Oh, my God. Now there's two of them," America manages to say in an indignant, exasperated exclamation as he takes in his surroundings. As before, France is still trying to tame the American's uncooperative golden mop... The younger blond takes some small pleasure in knowing that at least some part of himself is still attempting to resist European oppression while he cannot. However, China has seemingly appeared out of thin air and is attempting to rub the Americans face raw until there is nothing but bone left. America attempts to say something snide to the Asian nation that is inserting himself in affairs that aren't his own, but the two older nations appear to be completely ignoring everything around them but the task at hand. What that task is exactly, America doesn't know, but he has to momentarily appreciate the focus they both exude.

"Uh, China? What are you doing?" America asks as said Asian nation slightly sticks his tongue out in concentration as he continues to rub at the younger nation's cheek.

"It looks like you have paint on your face," China replies casually with a childish smirk that lets the American know that there really isn't anything on his face and that China is in a 'rare', playful mood that hardly sees the light of day in present company. After a few seconds of vigorous rubbing, the Chinese man withdraws his hand, and with a satisfied nod proclaims, "There."

"I assume that today is the day," China says out loud, to no one in particular as he begins to appraise the younger nation's attire. The younger nation shifts uncomfortably and plays with the large piece of cardboard tubbing, housing the neatly rolled up painting he intends to give to Spain. It's slightly unnerving to be 'stared at' while wearing clothing one isn't entirely used to. France had insisted on dressing the American since, according to France, the avatar of their people seems completely unable to channel the various fashionable influences that they have contributed to the world. America refused initially, he is perfectly capable of dressing himself and being fashionable… when he wants to be. Unfortunately, this then led to an overly dramatized monologue about New York fashion, the plight of the fashionable American citizens not being represented by their nation, and how what you wear literally speaks volumes; literally. The younger blonde soon mistakenly agreed to the European's 'request' thinking it would spare him the rest of the speech. He was wrong; so very wrong. China abruptly turns towards France while extending an open hand to the American, gesturing towards all of the younger nation while disapprovingly saying, "Does it have to be so form fitting?"

"Button up that collar," the eldest of the three demands as he less than gently jabs the American's sternum, causing the younger blonde to take a step back. "This isn't some sleazy booty call."

America lets out an amused snort. For some reason, 'sleazy booty call' unexpectedly coming out of the self-proclaimed, oldest nation on Earth is far more entertaining than it should be. It's most likely the accent America surmises.

"Sleazy?" France questions and proceeds to level China with a pitying look while maintaining an air of superiority. It reminds the American of some European noble looking down, in insincere concern, on the plight of the poor, ignorant masses of the common folk. "Only one button is left undone. If it were fully buttoned, then it would say, 'business only' and would require a jacket. Then we'd be left with a boring business suit and tie. He'd just blend in with all the mundane grey, black, and blue _blobs_ that move through this building and drown it in an oppressive atmosphere of drab, mediocrity."

"No," France continues as he fully appraises the American's attire. An admiral blue, collared dress shirt; slightly, and purposefully wrinkled with the first button undone. Revealing the dip where clavicle and sternum connect; providing a small, yet tantalizing expanse of skin for appreciating watchers. After all, if you've got it, flaunt it… but don't bring all the weapons in your arsenal fully to bare; where would the fun be in that? The rest of the outfit is rather basic, brown leather dress shoes, a leather belt and a pair of khaki's. America's best asset is his smile and expressive face, which is why attention must be drawn to that area. Sporting glasses with slightly thicker frames than usual, along with a stylishly messy mop that looks like it can't decide whether or not to break free, or stay in the barely acceptable, kempt business appearance forced upon it; attention will definitely be focused on the young blonde's face. France gives a pleased nod and smile before adding, "This says, 'adorable lost puppy, looking for loving home.' Which is exactly what is needed."

The older blonde turns to give the Asian nation that dared to insult his fashion decisions a harsh glare that bordered on qualifying for a full blown declaration of war. America watches in mild amusement as China levels an equally terrifying glare of his own. As the two 'elder' nation's begin to squabble in a heated debate about acceptable fashion in the work place, the blue eyed American seizes on the opportunity presented to him by Lady Luck to 'get the hell out of Dodge.' Karma must have felt that America had suffered enough and brought the Chinese avatar to free him from his tormentor. Though, the American has to briefly wonder what France or China most have done to generate a karmic response in which the two are pitted against each other in an arena that is arguably one of the most boring in existence; work place fashion.

"Thank you for the help, France; but I need to get going," America says while he turns with a wave and walks briskly away before the older nations can realize that they're being bailed on. The North American maintains his pace until he rounds a corner and notices that he doesn't have that feeling of being watched or followed. "Phew."

Slowing down to a more normal, walking pace, America taps the side of his leg with the cardboard tube protecting his latest gift for a certain viridian eyed Spaniard that has been occupying all of his thoughts. Briefly, America entertains the notion that the tube is a fancy walking cane and strolls through the hall, pretending to be some fancy Victorian era lord, walking through the streets of London. Which, in America's mind looks something akin to a set piece belonging in a Tim Burton film. Eventual the young, blonde avatar manages to pull his head out of the clouds and remembers that not only is he in another international meeting with Spain, but they have all been dismissed for a lunch break. Of course, this means that the North American must embark on another mission to deliver a painting.

America, brings the protective container closer towards himself, protectively. Normally, he would be concocting some sort of means to remain unnoticed, but France has managed to talk the American into gifting the painting in person. It's not like the azure eyed blonde had intended to deliver it anonymously anyway. The moment anyone spots the watercolor, they'll immediately know who created it. What France had to do was convince him to actually give the work of art, instead of keeping it shoved in some corner of his storage room, never to see the light of day. However, the older European nation had eventually come up with a 'Romantic' idea of how the events should unfold. A confession of love, declared through art, in front of the entire world. It was both an equally interesting and terrifying speech. Interesting, in that France had gotten so passionate about the whole vision he was creating in his head; that the older nation appeared to be lost in his own little world. It briefly made the American wonder if that is what he himself looks like when others accuse him of doing something similar.

What made it utterly terrifying was that America wasn't, and still isn't, quite sure how he feels about his newest watercolor. He is proud of how it turned out. Whatever Muse had struck him had stayed with him throughout the entire process and helped him to create a masterpiece that he will probably have difficulty ever matching in the future. Yet, the work of art frightens him, and gives him pause whenever he gazes upon it. He can't help but feel as if he has somehow managed to tear a piece of his very soul away and paint it upon a canvas. The painting revealed apart of himself that he had not entirely realized or accepted. Emotions and feelings towards another person that he had not fully confronted prior. His painting invokes a feeling that the North American has trouble describing, but the watercolor makes him feel overwhelmed, naked, and exposed… and France not only wants him to give it away to someone, who might possibly reject it, but do so in front of an audience. An audience that, at times, can display a cruelty and apathy that can only be achieved through living the innumerable horrors and tragedies that come with near immortality.

"Where is he," America says to himself as he nervously fidgets with the gift he is carrying. Mindlessly, he rubs his fingers against it, finding a small groove in the surface. He pauses momentarily as he tries to recall where Spain had gone to during the lunch break. The first half of their meeting had been divided up into regional meetings, so America had yet to see the Spaniard. It was made worse that France had literally pounced on him as he exited the door from his conference room and dragged him to lunch. The American couldn't help sense that the older blonde was trying to keep an eye on him and make sure that he wouldn't 'chicken out'. It mildly offended America. He is no chicken; once he agrees to something, he sees it through. It's the honorable, manly thing to do.

America is also appreciative of the older nation's actions, though. France, either intentional or unintentionally, had managed to distract America from his more negative side and provided much needed relief and support. Well, appreciative until the train of thought chugging away through his mind eventually leads the American to after lunch, when the Frenchman began to fuss over his hair to the amusement of everyone present… except for himself, of course. A shiver runs down the blonde's spine as he quickly attempts to forget that most harrowing event.

After a few moments of walking that appears more like nervous pacing, the American checks his smartphone. He notes that there is only ten or so more minutes left of their break. The best place to find Spain, the American decides, is the area in, or around the General Assembly. He pauses briefly, to steel himself. To sort through the swirling torrent of emotions battering his nerves. Despite his many reservations, and doubts about what may come, America decides that more than anything, he just wants someone to love. Someone to support and weather the ravages of time with, even if for but a fleeting moment. For whatever reason, his heart is set on a single individual. Although, anyone could reasonably suffice, the young nation can't see himself with anyone else; and with a decidedly determined look, marches on.

OoOoOoO

Spain holds his hand out to the side; letting it brush against the textured wallpaper of the hallway as he walks through the headquarters of whatever international forum he and his kind are attending this day. Normally, such an action would be accompanied by a bored, or exasperated expression; reminiscent of a child forced to wait in a doctor's office without any toys to entertain them. However, a small smile graces the Spaniard's features. Lately, these meetings with his kind, once a largely dull and uninteresting affair, have turned into a rather unexpected source of joy for the Mediterranean man. There are mainly two reasons for this change. The first are the gifts Spain receives after the lunch break of each meeting he has attended since his spat with Romano and England.

The Spaniard turns his gaze upward while he raises his head slightly to the side as he recalls the memory of the day he first started receiving the post-card sized works of art. The first time he saw the sketch of the kitten, Spain didn't think all that much of it. In fact, the viridian eyed nation didn't think much of anything at all that day. It was like being crushed by an oppressive gloom that shut down the ability to think, leaving only a swirling mass of sorrow and anger and every 'negative' emotion one could name. It was suffocating and left no room for anything else. However, the sketch of the small kitten playing with the tomato had caused something to stir within him. A very tiny, minuscule part of him felt 'something'. As to what that 'something' was, Spain's not sure, but it seemed to be a spark; a tiny pinprick of an ember fluttering in the raging darkness of his mind.

The gift turned out to be more than a singular event. Every day thereafter, during meetings with his kind, he would receive another work of art. Always something cute and/or fun. Something that would feed the tiny ember growing within him. Eventually the darkness consuming his mind was pushed back enough that the Spaniard was able to function again… able to think and to realize that this was just one moment in a long and numerous list of tragedies and dark spots in his long life that he needed to accept and move on from.

A small amused snort erupts from the Spaniard as his mind quickly diverts to several of the rumors running about the sketches and paintings that he has received these past couple of months. Specifically, the ones claiming that they're elaborate threats on his life with hidden symbolism in the imagery foretelling the details of his demise. They were mostly amusing, and the Mediterranean male has to marvel on the creativity it most take to imagine such a conspiracy. He has even been given a detailed report with the supposed evidence of the perceived plot against him by a concerned party. It is oddly entertaining. Mainly because Spain can tell from the paintings that the artist isn't out to harm him. The works of art are always so light hearted and warm, and they seem to radiate compassion and concern… and a great deal of fun. He can't help but feel that the artist is a gentle and playful sort of person. Much like an energetic puppy.

Spain rounds a corner as his thoughts are filled with adorable puppies yapping about and doing what it is that makes everyone coo uncontrollably at the little balls of fluff. Eventually, his mind jumps from these thoughts and on to the second reason these international meetings have been rather wonderful lately. Recently, the United States of America has taken to following the older nation around and appearing to generally appreciate and enjoy the Spaniard's company. It makes the Spanish avatar feel a sense of pride and worthiness… The American, usually a constant fountain of noise pollution, genuinely appears to listen to what the viridian eyed nation has to say. Usually, their kind (himself included) are far too wrapped up in themselves. It's not necessarily a bad thing; they each have thousands, or in some cases, millions or even billions of lives that they must worry about… But it is a truly wonderful feeling to have a nation like America, manage to pull themselves away from the innumerable troubles that must plague a world super power with a population of over three hundred million citizens, and ask Spain something so seemingly mundane as, "_How are you?_" with such a genuine expression.

It makes him a bit giddy that out of all the 'older' nations in the world, the American would rather read 'Don Quixote' instead of 'Hamlet' or 'Romance of the Three Kingdoms'. Sometimes, it really just makes the Spaniard want to jump up and rub that fact in their faces. Especially a certain island nation that shall not be named. He wouldn't mind taking a hardcover copy of America's new favorite book and literally rubbing it into the former British Empire's face.

The thought of said nation causes Spain to narrow his eyes as irritation begins to manifest and slowly push out the pleasant thoughts that were filling his mind mere moments ago. Fortunately, the Mediterranean nation manages to reach the lobby. The interior design of the room, full of national avatars, and their various government aides, is a bit dated. The coloring and architecture grab the Spaniard's attention away from his negative thoughts and clearly state to all present that this particular headquarters was either constructed, or remodeled during the 1980's.

Rather suddenly, Spain's eyes land upon a familiar golden mop and cowlick. America appears to be searching for someone. The determined, yet slightly anxious expression on his face causes the Spaniard to smile. America looks just like a child expected to do some task on their own for the first time, and all though nervous, puts up a brave and determined front. It is really quite adorable and Spain suddenly gets the urge to rush up to the North American and smother him in a hug.

The urge, and subsequent imagined scene, cause Spain to momentarily contemplate the expressiveness of the blonde American. He has always known that America is a very expressive and passionate nation. Not only has he seen it first hand, but it is something that is discussed quite often amongst their kind. What Spain hadn't realized, until rather recently, is exactly how expressive America is. It is rather amazing how much the American gives away; it's like the younger nation has managed to create an entirely new system of sign language primarily using facial expressions. What many would consider to be a single, generic smile, Spain now knows are actually several different smiles whose differences are so subtle, they are mistaken for a single expression. Happy, annoyed, daydreaming, dreading, confused, sad, and so much more all masked behind a blinding smile. A smile that Spain can read while others cannot.

The Spaniard is pulled from his musing by a pair of azure blue eyes. It seems that Spain himself is the person the young nation has been looking for with such an adorable, lost puppy expression. That realization causes a wave of happiness to wash over the Spaniard, who simply just rolls with the feeling. Allowing it to take shape on its own without much thought into where it is coming from. He gives a smile and short wave as the American makes his way to the Mediterranean male.

"Spain," America says as he finishes his approach and stands in front of the older nation. Spain shifts his gaze to the top of the American's head and briefly notices that the two are roughly the same height, before taking in the blonde's appearance. His hair is a bit messy, and he's rather confident that the America is wearing new glasses. The frames are slightly thicker and the Spanish avatar is struck with thought that it all just looks laid back and, of course, utterly adorable. His appraisal of the North American is cut short when America levels him with a look that causes the Spaniard to momentarily forget to breathe. It's a determined look that has something else indescribable behind it. Something that causes the brunette's heart to unexplainably, skip a beat. As the feeling passes, he watches on patiently (and with an amused grin) as the American starts to speak, only to cut himself off and start again. Clearly, he has something he wants to say, but either can't figure out how best to word it… or is nervous. Most likely both. Eventually, the wheat blonde nation closes his mouth and thrusts an object towards the Spaniard. "This is for you."

Spain looks at what is being presented to him. A piece of cardboard tubing with two plastic caps at each end. Slowly, the gears in the Spaniard's mind begins to turn as he realizes that such a container is usually employed to carry and protect certain paper and canvas items. Things like photos, and posters… and paintings. He accepts the object from the American. The instant his hands feel touch the brown paper sides, his heart begins to pound in his ears. He spares the American a quick glance before returning his gaze to the container in his hands. Neither nation seems currently capable of speaking. Carefully, the Spaniard uncaps one end and reaches two fingers into the opening to gently fish out an object that looks suspicious like a rolled up wall poster.

Spain sets the tubing on the ground by his feet before giving the American another glance. He notes that the younger nation appears anxious and is aimlessly fidgeting with a fold in the fabric of his shirt. The brunette feels like he should say something, anything really, but before the thought even has time to finish, the Spaniard's gaze is turned to the rolled sheet of heavy paper in his hand. Anticipation and excitement bubble to the surface as Spain slowly unfurls the object in his hand. As he does, a watercolor painting unveils itself before the Mediterranean male.

When the full scene painted on the canvas is finally revealed, Spain suddenly feels as if he has been punched in the gut. His eyes immediately land on the painted form of America and notices the fond, longing gaze he is casting towards Spain's own, sleeping form on the other side of the painting. Suddenly, every piece of art that the Spaniard has received these past several months flashes through his mind as the realization that America is the secret artist, hits him. Spain continues to gaze at the painting of America turned towards his own sleeping form and can't help but feel overwhelmed. Never before had he really felt so much emotion coming from a stationary work of art. Although the Spaniard has always wanted someone to spend the long and often, lonely life his kind lead; he had always figured it'd be with someone else. He's never even considered the American before.

Yet, as the feeling of being overwhelmed subsides, the Spaniard can't help but look back at the time he has spent together with American during their meetings. All the eagerness, the genuine smiles, awkward adorableness… the blushing. They were no longer simply 'cute'. Suddenly they were all becoming adorable in a different way. A way which causes the Spaniard's cheeks to burn as the beating of his heart causes a numbing, tingling sensation to radiate across his body. The painting, and past actions, now viewed in a different light, all say that America clearly wants to be something more to the viridian eyed nation.

The world drops away as Spain continues to stare at the painting. His eyes move across the canvas as he tries to figure out if he is willing to allow the American a place in his heart. Slowly, he manages to collect his thoughts, which had been blown about like leaves in a swirling tempest. A slight grin appears on the Spanish nation's face as he remembers how all the paintings he had received, and the time spent with America had made him feel. They made him happy. America's actions made him happy, and as simple a reason it may be to decide to be with someone, it was enough for Spain.

As he begins to calm down, the world slowly returns to focus. He briefly manages to hear someone asking him a question. His focus sharpens and he catches the last bits of a sentence that sound like '… time to decide'. Eventually, it registers in the Spaniard's mind that the one talking is America. It isn't until the American, most likely discouraged by the lack of a response, hesitantly turns to walk away, that Spain completely comes to. On impulse, he shifts the painting to one hand, while suddenly reaching out with the other and grabs America's arm to prevent him from leaving. He has to give the young nation his answer. The blonde American stops and turns, a look of surprise, and hope on his face. The Spaniard can't help but find it terribly endearing. As he establishes eye contact with the azure eyed blonde, Spain can't quite think of how to adequately say what he needs to say. Instead, he releases the American's arm and grabs his hand, entwining their fingers and giving a reassuring squeeze. He accompanies it with a truly happy and genuine smile. On that hasn't graced the world in a long time.

Spain gives an amused chuckle as the American appears to be stunned, but quickly recovers and dons an excited, and incredibly eager expression as he returns the Spaniard's gesture with a smile, and squeeze of his own.

"Cute!" Spain says out loud as he can't help but imagine America with puppy ears and wagging tail. However, an ominous feeling soon washes over the Spaniard as he suddenly feels as if the eyes of the world are on him. The dead silence makes the feeling all the more unnerving as a shadow looms over Spain and the American. Spain's happy expression slowly falls as he shifts his focus to the source of the shadow.

Standing before them, radiating a hostile aura, is England wearing the expression of an overbearing mother-in-law that promises years of untold horror to the one stealing their baby away. Spain scrunches his face into a contemplative expression as he surveys the room, taking in the audience that has gathered around them at a distance. He shifts his gaze to America, then to their linked hands and back to the Englishman with the unflattering expression on his face.

"This feels really familiar."


End file.
